


We Toss Around the Blame

by oceansinmychest



Category: Wentworth (TV)
Genre: Explicit Language
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-03-02
Updated: 2017-03-02
Packaged: 2018-09-27 20:38:40
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,755
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10048235
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/oceansinmychest/pseuds/oceansinmychest
Summary: Mindful of her manners, Joan holds the door open for the petite blonde with that intentional sway of her hips. The much more reserved Joan raises her head; yet, manages to look down her nose at Bridget. Truth be told, Ferguson finds Westfall's presence to be a financial waste. Of course, she holds her tongue. Words are weapons when you choose to use them wisely. [ Rated M for the language. ]





	

**Author's Note:**

> I have to say that these two had some... colorful interactions. I would give away my kingdom to see more interactions between them.

“Governor, a moment of your time, if you will.”

Scaramouche's torturous dance begins in the hallway, between two women with clashing opinions on what it means to run a correctional facility. The question of ethics is a matter that forensic psychologist, Bridget Westfall, immediately launches into. She's aware of how corruption twists even the most hopeful and turns them into the most jaded within the criminal justice system. She's no lamb, no girl with green behind the ears.

Governor Joan Ferguson is but another whom thinks she can rule with an iron fist. She is a woman who needs control. Though Bridget hasn't known the governor for long, she already classifies her. Puts her into on the fine line between sociopathy and psychopathy where the definition remains uncertain.

It reminds Bridget of her university days. How she toured a prison she chose to forget the name of. Fresh out of graduate school, she'd given the wrong prognosis and it proved costly for the inmate. Even now, she chooses to forget.

“I suppose I can grant you a moment though I would prefer we carry this to my office.”

_Of course you would._

Bridget muses to herself with a small smile in place. The Governor's office serves as a home away from home, a sanctuary in this hellhole of a prison. Within those four walls, Joan has the most control. She signs the papers; she monitors the CCTV. In a way, she decides who lives and who dies. It's a bit like playing God. Already, Joan's walking at a brisk pace. She swipes her hand over the front of her immaculate, ironed blazer. She steams it every morning, bright and early. There's neither a hair out of place nor a wrinkle to mar her armor.

Long, slender legs for days (serve them on a platter, on a chopping block, they're better off there; Joan believes with a fiery conviction) follow after Joan. Bridget makes no struggle to catch up with the governor. The rustle and hiss of Bridget's pleated skirt accompany the click of their purposeful heels. She's free to express who she is, free in her flowing dresses and shirts and skirts. Joan remembers how as a youth, the skirts looked too awkward on her, made her seem taller somehow. The boys and girls laughed. They always did.

But that was the old Joan. The old Joan who kept her hair short and wore skirts. The old Joan who cradled Jianna in her time of need. The old Joan who made promises with watery eyes. That Joan had been **weak**.

Mindful of her manners, Joan holds the door open for the petite blonde with that intentional sway of her hips. The much more reserved Joan raises her head; yet, manages to look down her nose at Bridget. Truth be told, Ferguson finds Westfall's presence to be a financial waste. Of course, she holds her tongue. Words are weapons when you choose to use them wisely.

Joan inhales.

Bridget reeks of a sense of purpose, self-righteousness, and Chanel No. 5.

“Do have a seat,” Ferguson drawls, her smokey voice affecting her anunciation.

“No, thank you. I'll stand.”

The blonde folds her arms across her chest. Joan's gaze follows such an action with a sudden turn of her head. Turquoise. She's wearing a thin turquoise blouse that brings out the sky in her eyes and highlights the hollow of her throat, deliciously exposed. Dark, glittering eyes trace the curve and twist of the blonde's calf. She wonders how the muscle would bend and twitch underneath her cruel touch. Joan swallows.

“Very well, Doctor. Have it your way. Do carry on with the conversation.”

Dismissively, the governor waves a hand.

 _You can be a real cunt,_ Bridget thinks and manages to refrain from saying it aloud.

Dr. Westfall looks at her as though she's trying to unlock her. To solve this Rubix cube. To answer the Sphinx Riddle that is Joan Ferguson. Joan likes it not.

Somehow, she feels a stranger in her own office. In her own suit. The doctor does this to her. She's always loathed the psychobabble. Brings her back to the bereavement counselor that the school had practically thrown her way upon the passing of her mother. Ivan had withdrawn her from that school upon the discovery.

“Should the media catch wind of how the inmates are treated at Wentworth, this place will be on the verge of collapse. The funds will stop coming in. Your people will lose their jobs. The inmates will lose their family dynamic and be displaced. One action affects the many.”

Joan hums in response to Bridget's droning. She sounds as though she's prepared the speech for a lecture hall full of apathetic students that doodle in their marginalia. Bridget seems far too self-assured. So high and mighty. Joan would like to see her knocked down a peg or two. What made this little gadfly tick?

“You do realize, Dr. Westfall, that I am mindful of the fact. A certain reputation is to be upheld. However, everything I do is for the greater good. I have a precise way in running this facility and I will not have your meddling ruin what I have built here.”

Bridget sighs, her hair pulled back in a loose ponytail. Some strands fall free and tickle her cheekbones that have a hint of blush painted across them. Her brows work together.

Joan Ferguson simultaneously breaks and fits many molds. For a moment, Dr. Westfall grows uncomfortably silent while studying the governor in a clinical fashion. It would do her some good to kneel. Shove some humility into her promiscuous work dress. It's a satisfying fantasy.

“Are you aware of the cost here? Both financially and emotionally?”

“Well, nothing in this world is free.”

A thin, icy smile curls onto Joan's lips.

Their dynamic resembles a proverbial fencing match where words become rapiers.

_I will savor the moment and be cordial during your downfall. Then, I will smile and shake your fragile, trembling hand._

Bridget stares incredulously.

Ivan berates her, ' _Emotion leads to weakness. Envy marks the fall of many a soldier, Joan._ ' He's loud and booming inside her head. ' _But I am not envious-- yes, father,_ ' she thinks though she cannot bring herself to say it aloud.

But she is envious. Envious of Bridget's perfect life. Envious of Bridget's picturesque beauty. Envious of how easy it is for Bridget to obey societal norms while deviating in sexuality. Bridget Westfall is not an anomaly. She is normal. That makes her deadly.

“Jodi Spiteri exhibits signs of severe mistreatment. Clearly, the poor girl's traumatized. This cannot go on, _Joan_.”

The blonde stresses Joan's name for emphasis. Tries to appeal to the older woman's humanity – wherever that may be. The eyes are the window to the soul though Bridget is unsure of what she's searching for this time.

“It's Governor Ferguson to you, Dr. Westfall, or shall I refer to you as Bridget since we have become suddenly so intimate?”

Ferguson sneers. Stiffens. Her name upon that dreadful woman's lips sounds like a crime. Bridget Westfall is not a friend. Far from it. The rage is as destructive as a forest fire. Smiling down at her with all of her venom, Joan remains on the offense. Though this is not a trial, it feels like one.

“How presumptous of you. Tell me, have you always been this way? Spoonfed the selective truth? Yes, that must be so, given your... haughtiness. Women like you fall from their shallow high horse all too soon.”

Then, comes the rebuttal.

“What happened to Jodi Spiteri was a necessary evil. Her suffering ought to serve as a lesson to the other women.”

Jodi's red eye full of tears and bloodshot vessels looms in the back of her mind, soon to be another apparition added to her haunted mind. Joan's fingers reach for a yellow pencil that's been knocked aside. Soon, four pencils line up. It calms her.

“You're sick,” Bridget hisses.

Sick, sick, sick.

 _You're sick._ The words reverberate within Joan's bones and resurrect near-ancient tales from girlhood.

Joan clenches her jaw. She wrinkles her nose in disdain.

An old Stones song plays on the radio. Abruptly, in disgust, Joan switches it off. She's seen enough of Westfall in her summer clothes. How did the music begin, anyhow? Losing grip, losing control, seems impossible; yet, the catalyst has begun.

“You allow yourself to become too – _too_ attached, Dr. Westfall. These women are in need of **correction** , not meaningless consolations.”

Her hand forms a fist. Ivan tells her to get a hold of herself, to pull herself together. Dangerously, she stalks towards the psychologist who thinks she has it all figured out. She corners the smaller woman, backs her into the cabinet full of files and names. Her arms create a v-shape that locks Bridget into the center. Bridget cranes her neck, stares up at Joan.

“Do you think you can intimidate me, Joan?”

She sighs, as though her second language is disappointment.

_You will never understand._

Joan imagines wrapping her hands around that pale throat and squeezing until those sea blue eyes roll back. She imagines kissing those wrists before securing them together with cable ties or handcuffs. She imagines the woman at her most vulnerable. At the thought, her lips upturn into a Cheshire grin.

Instead, her fingers hover over the hollow of Bridget's throat. She can see how Bridget swallows, the veins in her neck protruding from the tension that fills her body. She intrudes by fixing the woman's collar. Bridget tries her damnedest not to flinch, but the slightest stiffening of her shoulders tells a great deal.

“What a fascinating discussion we've had, _Bridget_. Do see yourself out.”

Control regained, the governor relinquishes her grip. Steps away with her gloves raised in the air, as though she's been caught red-handed. She gestures towards the door for Bridget to make her departure.

At a loss for words, Bridget shakes her head. The lines in her forehead increase in magnitude. Still, her hips sway. _If I'm not careful, I could become Jonah in the belly of the whale._ She ignores the thump of her heart and that dark, abysmal stare that Joan gave her. She's never seen something so black.

Ferguson sits down in her rightful place, at her desk where her nameplate faces outwards and not a single item is positioned out of place.

This is a conversation that went nowhere and would go nowhere again in the future.

 

**Author's Note:**

> Also, the mention of the gadfly is an allusion to Socrates. Socrates greatly disliked the opinion of the many and equated that to a gadfly buzzing in the ears or nipping on the hinds of cattle. It's the professional opinion of the individual that he preferred. Ironically, Joan equates Bridget to the gadfly. It's hypocritical, as some of her actions tend to be. Bridget is a professional and an expert in her field. Yet, she's also a nuisance when it comes to Joan's high-tier planning. The alternate outcome to this fic would have been Ferguson wrapping her hands around Bridget's thought, but I thought that was too extra.


End file.
